


Literary Pursuits

by Still_and_Clear



Series: In the Basin [10]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: F/M, I finally managed some direct speech!, Recollections of past violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-26
Updated: 2014-07-26
Packaged: 2018-02-10 12:47:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2025663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Still_and_Clear/pseuds/Still_and_Clear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>More fun with Fred Squared. </p>
<p>I might do another that would go back in time in the series, while Frederick is still in the hospital - mostly because I raced to him and Freddie getting together and have since realised there's another couple of scenes that I would liked to have added.</p>
<p>As ever - please feel free to comment. :)</p>
    </blockquote>





	Literary Pursuits

**Author's Note:**

> More fun with Fred Squared. 
> 
> I might do another that would go back in time in the series, while Frederick is still in the hospital - mostly because I raced to him and Freddie getting together and have since realised there's another couple of scenes that I would liked to have added.
> 
> As ever - please feel free to comment. :)

They finally drew up at his house, Frederick casting a sidelong glance at her, relaxed now that she was back and he was home _they were home_ , his mind whispered. Freddie’s ensemble today consisted of her black cape and leopard print skirt. The combination of that skirt and his car interior (of which he was justly proud, he felt), had led, a few weeks ago, to one of his long-cherished fantasies finally being acted out in the front seat. The reality, however, had proved to have more practical difficulties than his fantasies: demanding contortions that had provoked smothered laughter from them both, and him having to lean on his cane somewhat more heavily than usual the next day – but had still been, he felt, entirely worthwhile.

Freddie stepped inside the doorway, dropping her purse and coat as soon as the door closed behind her – making Frederick cluck his tongue and roll his eyes disapprovingly at her flagrant disrespect of his pristine house. This only encouraged Freddie – who practically lived to provoke a response. Deciding to indulge her almost pathological need for attention, he pinched her hip as he brushed past her on his way to the kitchen, and grinned at the feigned outrage and sly smile he got in response. After they’d eaten, a beet tarte tatin which he had decided _might_ just be his new signature dish, Freddie had said that she had to get some of her interview notes into a rough draft, and he had a paper to work on too, so they cleared the plates and sat down across from each other at Frederick’s dining table, laptops open, a glass in front of each of them. To fame and glory, she said grandly, raising her glass and aiming an arch look at him. He leaned back in his chair, returning her look with a smile, and raised his own glass in assent.

For a long while there was not much talking, only tapping and frowning and intermittent queries about what sounded better: _this_ or _that?_ Frederick was determined that his career would not be wrecked by Hannibal’s malice, or the FBI’s blundering, and had decided that a fresh publication was the best way to send a ‘business as usual’ message to his colleagues. Something serious-minded and orthodox, in a bid to re-establish some professional solidity. Running his fingers over his lower lip as he tried to recall a reference, he looked over at Freddie – her eyes intent and face taut with concentration.

She took her work seriously, for all the sneers aimed in her direction by her colleagues and contacts, and he had noticed that dog-eared copies of Orwell and Didion jostled for space with lurid serial killer biographies on her bookshelves. Unlike his own hunger for the praise of his peers, Freddie seemed to rejoice in thumbing her nose at hers, almost wilfully courting their disdain. He knew that those who knew them both probably thought their relationship an exercise in narcissism – both equally voracious in their ambition – but this difference between them was a notable one. Frederick admired Freddie’s cool disregard for the opinions of others, and had told her as much, which – ironically enough - had pleased her, he could tell, by her smile and jut of her chin.

While Freddie was careless of her own good reputation, she was fiercely protective of his, he had noticed. This blithe cognitive dissonance of hers on his behalf amused him – but he felt a little thrill of joy to see her willingness to leap to his defence – nose in the air, and her sharp tongue slashing at his detractors. His gaze on her turned warmer and he had a sudden impulse to touch her, nudging her ankle with his foot under the table. She smiled, but kept her eyes on the screen. Ten more minutes, she said. He sighed exaggeratedly and turned back to his work.

Ten minutes turned into twenty, until Frederick started to roll his stiff shoulders. Walking with the cane _did_ bother his alignment somewhat. He had found his old cane when he had returned to the house, resting neatly alongside his umbrella where the FBI investigators must have left it. Hannibal had, for some reason, omitted to place it at his side along with the gun when he had _set his scene_. Frederick knew that those who disliked him deemed him petty but it seemed to him that Hannibal – as in so many areas – was even his superior here. He frowned, wondering whether the image of him trying to flee, limping painfully all the while, had afforded Hannibal much pleasure, or only a small, fleeting smirk. He felt a small but decided kick at his ankle and looked up to find Freddie watching him closely. Used to scanning her interviewees for tells, she had learned to read him quite well, it seemed, and did not hesitate to slide a hand over his when she suspected he was having a flashback, or simply lingering too long over memories best forgotten. That’s enough for now, she said. Which one of your fancy wines can I fail to properly appreciate tonight?

They settled on his sofa with glasses of a particularly good Chenin blanc that Freddie described as ‘grapey’, prompting an disdainful sniff from him, and a tart observation on the poverty of her vocabulary for a woman who wrote for a living. She was unruffled by this, however, choosing instead to smugly list how many millions of hits her recent articles had had – and how many more she would get when Graham finally brought Hannibal in and she could capitalise on the capture by writing about her own intimate experiences of him.

I offended his _taste_ , she said, with a tilt of her chin. My clothes, my voice – having the temerity to ask for a vegetarian meal at his home – all of it. Will Graham told me I was _definitely_ on his list, his _menu_. Her eyes gleamed with satisfaction at having apparently been such a thorn in the side of a monster, but Frederick could remember too clearly the terror he had felt at seeing Hannibal standing over him as he lay belly-down on his own hall floor. The thought of her in his place - Hannibal lurking in Freddie's apartment, waiting for her to come home, made him feel suddenly ill, and he took a gulp of his wine. He smiled weakly, and raised his glass - _the fearless Freddie Lounds!_ \- his voice a little too loud, a little strained. She smirked at the toast, but he could tell by the softening in her eyes that she knew it bothered him. She moved closer on the couch, her hand smoothing down his tie affectionately, mutely reassuring him.

He cleared his throat, and tried to recover his balance a little. You must have a great deal of material to cover, he observed.   
Yes, she said. I’ll have to pace myself, though – a series of articles, maybe. What about you? Is there anything you can use?   
Professionally, you mean? Frederick hummed reflectively, swirling the liquid in his glass to and fro. Maybe. I never formally interviewed him, or administered any tests – but maybe some hypotheses based around the Ripper profile I gave in court…

Which we now know was perfectly _right_ , she interrupted – the hand holding her glass jabbing his shoulder for emphasis – choosing to gloss over the fact that the profile was right but the suspect was wrong. Perfectly right, he agreed, amusedly, a grin – shark-like – making its way across his face, while his hand reached out to twist one of her curls around his finger. She nodded once in response, a somewhat self-satisfied expression on her face, and then shifted to sit with her head against his shoulder. He settled an arm possessively around her and leaned back, contentedly, to anticipate the undoubted success of their literary endeavours.


End file.
